Meanwhile, the day was lovely, the holler peaceful, the drive over pleasant, and the shopping in Florence magnificent. The drive back was a bit of a bummer, but only because these twelve-hour days are hard on a guy my age. Really, middle age is just one long (losing) negotiation with decrepitude. You lose two steps, you buckle down and work to get one back; then you lose three steps, you work like blazes to get two back -- but you're always falling behind, one step at a time. Still and all, though, it's good to be alive.
Go outside about 9 p.m. these days and look toward the west-northwest. Cygnus the Swan is standing on his nose, just above the horizon, making a giant Cross.
The heavens are telling the glory of God;
and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours forth speech,
and night to night declares knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words;
their voice is not heard;
yet their voice goes out through all the earth,
and their words to the end of the world.
He is coming. Alleluia.